


RECOLLECTION

by winluvr



Series: THIS IS OUR NEW RELIGION. [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Character Study, Demon x Priest AU, Implied/Referenced Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Miya Atsumu is a hot priest, tender romance between a priest and a demon but make it sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: There is no taking back of his sins, so he holds them in his hands as he recollects them, cataloguing each and every vignette of the demon’s mouth and hands into the folds of his memories.The demon is nothing but a fever dream. Nothing but a dream haunting the priest's sleepless nights.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Kita Shinsuke
Series: THIS IS OUR NEW RELIGION. [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966375
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	RECOLLECTION

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. demon-priest atsukita concept is from saelove_0604 on twitter :) all credits to them  
> 2\. this was supposed to be part of a full-length 10k fic but i couldn't get some of the scenes done... so i will split it up into three or more fics  
> 3\. these works are more like distant successors of one another rather than siblings... so i might rearrange them someday to fit my liking... :)

Shinsuke looks like a dream when he enters the cathedral for the first time, sitting among pews and pees of regular church-goers but never daring to dip his hand into holy water. Every time the priest looks at him, he catches his gaze, a small smile dangling at the corners of his mouth. Like a challenge, like a threat. Go ahead and look at me a little more. He knows he's beautiful. No other boy could be as beautiful as he's always been, dead or alive or somewhere in between. He looks like a scene from a black and white film, the people within the church turned into mere stage backdrops.

Shinsuke touches the priest for the first time when he strips off his robes in his room, the dark of the night curling into his point of view. The stars lap up the excess darkness around them, twinkling bright yellow and orange in a sheet of black. The demon appears into the priest’s room and touches him, only for a second, only for the slightest of a moment, hands roaming around his neck and chest, driving him speechless.

It had only been a moment. A quarter of a moment as the priest stood still in his own nakedness, the vestments and liturgical vessels stripped away from his hands. But to him, to both of them, it had felt more than a moment, the scene of their silhouettes brushing against each other in the dark, the split-second vignette of their bodies fitting into one another. An hour lying with the priest whittles away so fast, feeling more like something instant, a meal that is tucked away into its confinements soon after it is cooked rather than letting it simmer. The saucepan boils into the surface but the bubbles never rise. It reminds the demon of the instant meals he had to learn how to make in times of poverty, where he had been left on the rough gravel of the streets to learn how to fend for himself. A moment of satisfaction, only to be thrown away.

But the demon knows that even just an instance, any special occasion spent with the priest would be better spent than a year spent with someone else, the entirety of a lifetime spent with anyone else lying in the embrace of his arms. Although he had only known him for such a short time, the demon is certain that nothing could possibly compare to how the priest looks at him, bewilderment and awe in his eyes, his mouth parted, his jaw slack. As though the priest is worshipping an invisible god, as though the priest is bowing down to a king that has long been situated in his throne and locked up in his castle, as though the demon is a mirror of everything that the priest has allowed himself to long for, to desire, to crave for.

And if it’s any consolation, the priest touches the demon like he is made of the same material as him, the same warmth that he is looking for, the same components of everything that he desires. The demon is warm, searing the tips of the priest’s fingers every time he touches him, every corner of the demon’s body scorching the pads of his fingers. Like his body is made of the same material that his dreams are spun from, the same flax that the wheel spins into linen. Shinsuke is a boy spun from the fluttering wisps of the priest’s dreams.

Atsumu feels his hands trembling as he reaches out to touch the demon and splays his fingers across the breadth of his shoulders. He pulls him in closer and closer, the distance he had gotten used to between them narrowing by increments. If it only had been an increment, if only it had been the littlest bit of space that the demon had taken up, then maybe, just maybe, Atsumu would have gotten the chance to snap out of his reverie. But the priest never knows when to stop. He only knows, only remembers how to say no when it’s far too late, only moments away from crumbling into his sudden demise.

There he is, the demon. The demon is kissing his neck, his straight line of teeth nipping across the muscles of his neck, enough to send him into a state of feverish delirium, even as he clamors for a moment, even just a moment, to breathe. A minute passes between them as the demon finally looks up and presses his mouth against the priest’s, tasting like all of the things he has expected him to. Like sunshine after days filled with rain showers. Like Sicilian wines and grilled fish on a hot summer day. Like sea bream and sobameshi, like ice pops, blue raspberry-flavored, shared with a brother and his boyfriend. Like new things, but always like home. Always welcome. Like the blue-hot starfire of a thousand meteorites. 

Shinsuke looks like all of the memories Atsumu had long catalogued into the back of his mine, because he never has the time to indulge in the memories he keeps at the back of his hand. All of his high-school photos are tucked away into a photo album, given to Osamu on the last birthday they had together before Atsumu entered the seminary and immersed himself into scripture readings, before Osamu came back to Hyogo and established the first branch of his shop. Atsumu faced countless nights without sleep in the first few months, rolling around in his sheets, feeling as lonely as ever. It is difficult not to feel lonely in a room with little else but plain wood walls and a large cross with the body of the Savior. It is difficult not to feel lonely in a room that offers no solace.

Atsumu still remembers that day, visceral as ever. All of his memories are intuitive, flitting into the cave of his mind as he sits back in his quarters and tries to meditate. Whenever he tries to submerge himself into his nightly prayers, he can see his brother’s face in the dark of his eyelids. There had been tears in his brother’s eyes, although he made sure to wipe them off with the back of his hand, leaving as quickly as they had come, when he noticed Rintarou’s eyes twinkling as he looked at him. He can see Rintarou too, his heart swelling at the sight of the gold band around his ring finger. He looked happy. His brother looked happy. Atsumu couldn’t help but miss them. He remembers everything that passes by him, as though he had long abandoned his reckless philosophy of not needing memories. There’s no longer anything to fear and no more doubts about the need to hold on to something. 

However, when Shinsuke comes into his room, dressed in a pair of red satin pajamas and his feet bare, intruding into the middle of his nightly incantations. He looks like a nightmare and smells like a dream. His scent, tantalizingly musky and sweet and flowery all at once, smells like all of the good things in the world rolled into one silhouette. He smells like lavender body wash and bergamot musk. Familiar, like the sunrise he wakes up to and never forgets to watch out for in the mornings where the wisps of the clouds outshine it. Like lemon detergent and jasmine tea. How his okaa-san’s shirts used to smell like. The tea his brother used to brew, one for each of them, poured into matching mugs. Sweet, sweet enough to send him into delirium. Like his grandmother’s eucalyptus oil. Like forever, like forever could be a boy.

Atsumu feels the demon laughing against his lips, heady and sweet, beckoning him to come down to his knees and press his cheek against the satin of his pajama pants. He would, he would, if only the stained glass windows didn’t seem like witnesses, if only the cross didn’t look down on them as it stood nailed to the wall. He feels the demon’s long, black nails dragging across his neck as he pulls him closer to him. And he knows, he knows, right there and then, that there is no getting out of this. There is no taking back of his sins and there is no taking back of the nights they spent together, so he holds the sins they have committed in his hands as he recollects them, cataloguing each and every vignette of the demon’s mouth and hands into the folds of his memories.

“I love you, darling,” Shinsuke murmurs against his mouth. A moment passes between them without either one of them saying a word, and the priest struggles to catch his breath. The demon sounds almost tender now, the rare moment an act of intimacy. Never familiar, yet always welcome. He tugs on Atsumu’s collar once more. “Yer always so good for me.”

Atsumu’s breath hitches and his heart almost catches in the back of his throat. His thoughts are swirling in his head like an endless flurry. “I want you to stay,” he says. Admits, even. A confession camouflaged as a moment of nonchalance. It’s almost like detachment hides all of the words he wants to say, like detachment is a mask for him to hide behind. It’s almost like composure could be their love language.  _ I want you to stay.  _ Too strong, too intimate. Too tender, too selfish.

“I don’t,” Shinsuke says, swallowing down the lump stuck in his throat like a wishbone. His voice drops, low against the priest’s skin. He’s quiet, almost reverent, before he looks at Atsumu. “I don’t think I could bear to be selfish with you, my darling. Everything about ya makes me want to come down, be selfless. Sacrifice everything for you.” He laughs bitterly. “And I don’t want to make promises I’m not sure I can keep.”

Atsumu brushes the pads of his fingers across the veins on the back of Shinsuke’s hand. “I didn’t say that I needed you to come back everyday.” Although he did. “I didn’t say that. I’ll take everything you can give me.” And he will, he will. “I just want you to tell me you’ll come back some other night.”

Shinsuke presses his last kisses before he leaves, coiling back into his ghostly state, flying past the windowsill. One on Atsumu’s forehead. Another on the left side of his chest and another on the right side. The last one on the corner of his mouth, all butterfly kisses down to the square of his jaw. As though it is meant to signify the sign of the cross. As though he is marking the priest with the promise of their reunion.


End file.
